


Alone and Blue

by empires



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Detective Noir, M/M, Murder, Mystery, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War I, Slow Build, implied Dick Grayson/League of Morally Gray Exes, joyfire - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-04-23 00:37:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19140079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empires/pseuds/empires
Summary: A web of secrets and lies threaten the lives that Jason holds dear.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the long plotted and vaugely teased 1920s AU I would refer to as "Jason Todd, Private Dick" in tumblr tags. I finally started writing it during the 2016 Nanwrimo cycle, where I promptly discovered I still didn't know how to write noir. And then the US elections happend.... The story's been languishing ever since. 
> 
> But it's a new day, and while I've abanonded making this my big bang for the year, I won't abandon the idea! Please enjoy my attempts at building a mystery with y'all. And be patient with me guys. My ambition for this story is equally as powerful as Jason's thighs.

When the night looms heavy and the stillness mounts like a threat, the grainy voice of the training records turn in Jason’s mind. He imagines them spinning and the words filter through the harshest memories like a droning lullaby while laying alone in his bed. 

_ In the trying months ahead, our soldiers will  be tested by the Germans, by the land, and by the fear of the unknown. It must be the resourcefulness of our command that will keep them safe, and the maintenance of our daily routines that hone their focus and discipline. Keep to your routine, soldier, and all will be well. _

Keep to the routine and all will be well.

Rolling onto his back, Jason lets the morning routine to unfold. 

It starts by opening his eyes to view the sign across the street. Its paint-bulbs proudly blink, “Welcome to Gotham City,” in the cold autumn rain. The cheerful adage won’t be found dropping from the lips of Gotham citizens. They’re more likely to say, “Scram, sister,” or “double or nothing, Charlie,” or “mind your own business,” but Jason’s always been sentimental. The sign is what drew him to this place. 

Jason had never thought he’d come home again after losing the last of his innocence on the frontlines and sailing his sorrows away as a merchant marine. Had never thought there’d be a place for him in the city that birthed him. But Gotham City, the jeweled lantern on the bay, had opened her aged arms and swept Jason back into the fold. Gazing at the electric haze each day reminds him that he’s survived the past. He’s made it back, ready to forge new experiences in a new day. 

And truly, no other place in the world experiences the types of highs found on the city’s still gilded rooftops or the lows felt in the sooty west end gutters. And no man has found a way to traverse both sides of the city like Jason Todd. It comes from his past, twisted opportunities and dumb luck. It comes with the job, private detective. It comes with the reputation he’d once maintained, honorable and discreet. 

Slowly, the morning builds and Jason lies silent while the sounds of the city return. The first of the delivery men make their way down the streets with the clip of horse shoes and the slow clank of wagon wheels. Somewhere in the building, a baby cries loud, lamb-throated bleats that pierce through the walls. Upstairs, a couple is going another round of anger. Down the hall comes the shower’s strangled grind. Soon, the entire building begins to sway when the elevated train rumbles by. The engine’s lights filter through the shades like the noonday sun before fading away. Jason stares at the dark shape of it flickering by his window until the train disappears around the corner. 

The lights from the sign are dim now, heralding night’s end.

Jason rolls out of bed stretching gingerly after laying on cramped frame. The floor creaks under his weight. His suit hangs on the back of the door. He grabs a clean shirt and his trousers before heading out the bathroom to the floor’s bathroom. Being the second in means the water is instantly warm, and he scrubs the night sweat from his hair and skin. By the time he’s brushed and shaved, Jason feels halfway human again. Enough so that he can admire the heavy black hair that curled over his forehead, smiling Irish eyes and a full Spanish smile in warm skin. He’s always been a bit of a looker too. Those features have always helps him in the end turning a ladies’ heads or intimidating the men struggling upright only to fall short of his stature. Those very attributes also send trouble to his door. It might be a hassle, but one he's learned to live with.

Who is he kidding? He’s a Gothamnite born and raised. Trouble can knock all it wants. He knocks harder. 

Jason steps back from the mirror tie knotted at his throat ready to greet the day. 

Welcome to Gotham City.

 

* * *

 

There’s a man bundled inside a blue cotton uniform menacing the entrance of the Delacroix Café, home of the famous Gotham Gumroad coffee. The police officer crowds the space next to the doors, arms crossed, deep set gaze wandering over the morning crowd. His expression is brooding, sore like he wants to be inside a station house instead here of all places, the corner of a busy intersection during the rush of morning feet. Jason would rather him be at the station house too.

Jason tilts his hat forward before striding toward the door. He keeps his eyes straight, a slight bob in his head as he passes the officer, who does a little more than blink when Jason crosses the threshold. But as he passes, Jason catches the slow unfurling of the cop’s smile. It’s something you never want to see, a police officer smiling at you and only you in the middle of a crowded street.

Inside, the cafe glows from the fires heating its stoves. It’s filled near to burst, as always, people needing their nickel coffee on a blustery day. Jason tosses two fingers up catching the waitress’s eye. Two minutes later he’s thumbing out change onto the wooden counter.

“That’s five cents extra, Todd,” she says.

“It’s for the service, doll. You don’t want it, hand it over to the guy working the fry-top. The one that keeps my bagels toasted.”

She scoops the payment into her hand. “See you tomorrow morning!”

“Not if I can help it.” He shoots back with a smile. Tucking breakfast into his overcoat, Jason slips towards the doors.

The cop is gone when he steps outside, disappeared in the gray mist, out of sight but always on the mind.

 

* * *

 

“You have a message on your desk.”

Jason pulls the cap from his head once he closes the office door. The glass insert rattles and he turns the open sign to face the world. “You mean the phone still works?”

“Of course it still works.” Stephanie Brown, his secretary, stands to help him out of his overcoat, but Jason waves her back. She is a slender, charming thing, with blonde hair pinned to the back of her head. Today she's wearing A-line cotton in royal blue.

“And someone actually used it to call us about a job?” Jason would like to say it’s been a slim few weeks, but it’s actually been a slim couple of months. The flood of calls had this gig jumping in the winter has dwindled down to a trickle in the summer that became a veritable drought this fall.

“You’re never going to guess,” Stephanie says, eyes sparkling with excitement.

Jason tosses the paper bag to the secretary’s waiting hands. “Of course I’m not going to guess. You’re going to tell me.” 

Stephanie wrinkles her pert nose at him before testing out a gamine smile. “Am I?”

“You can do better, dollface.”

“You keep saying that, boss, but nothing better has come along.”

Jason had hired her in the spring in a fit of exuberance. Cases seemed to come skulking up his door every other day and the office phone rang at all hours. She had been the fifth applicant to walk into his office that day, the second who hadn’t immediately walked out, and the first to introduce herself. Even listened to the first part of his spiel before the phone rang. Then Stephanie stood and answered and all the northside swing in her voice flattened down to something posh, pretty even.

They’ve been a proper team ever since. Loyal, practical, and a mean right hook—they don’t make them like Stephanie Brown. The world would be a better place if they did.

“You’ve got my undivided attention and half,” he stresses the word as Stephanie pulls out a hot bagel, “my breakfast. Spill it already.” Jason shakes the jacket before hanging it on the hook before sitting on the desk’s edge.

“You’re going to want a chair for this one, boss. I nearly fell down when I picked up the calls.”

“Yeah, yeah. Is there an end to this story?” Jason takes a bite out of his bagel.

“You’re no fun,” she says, frowning. “It’s not every day we get a client like Bruce Wayne.”

Jason pauses mid chew. “Bruce Wayne?”

Stephanie nods, bun jangling in excitement. “Yes. Bruce Wayne. I mean, it was his secretary of course, or maybe his secretary’s secretary. Can you imagine?” Her eyes get a little dreamy thinking about the life of lights and glamor lived by those lucky few on the east river.

The thing is, Jason can. He stretches the bread with his fingers pulling it into bite-sized morsels. “So that’s what the message says? We’re hired.”

“Well, no. His secretary was calling to set up an appointment with Mr. Wayne. I said you were available today at two.”

Jason nods thoughtfully. “And you’re sure it’s Bruce who is asking for me.”

“Mr. Wayne,” Stephanie says, stressing the title.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Mr. Wayne.” He bows mockingly at the waist. He’s not at all surprised when Stephanie curtseys in reply.

“And yes,” she says, saucily. “The undersecretary made it clear he wished to discuss a possible case with you.”

“That’s certainly interesting.” 

“That’s all?” Stephanie asks, eyes wide with incredulous excitement. “Bruce Wayne calls for you directly, almost almost directly, and that’s all you have to say?”

“It’s Bruce Wayne not the Queen of Sheba. And I’ve got work to do before I can prepare for this meeting where you oh so thoughtfully offered to serve me up on a silver platter.”

“Oh, come on, Jason. It’s the richest man in Gotham asking for you by name. It’s got to be a job. Doesn’t it?” The excitement’s faded in Stephanie’s eyes and her voice grows soft.

There’s nothing else to say until old man Bruce breaks out the proclamations. But Stephanie looks at him with those powder blue eyes filled with expectation, and she’s stuck with him during the press battering and the exoneration, all thankless tasks to be sure. 

Jason pops to his feet, dusting the crumbs into the trash bin before walking to the door separating the offices. “We’ll know this afternoon.” He hesitates at the entrance then turns. “Hey. You did a good job, kid.”

Stephanie rolls her eyes. “Well, that goes without saying.”


	2. Chapter 2

In Old Gotham, between the financial district and the business district, a single handshake decides the fate of one-hundred thousand people in a day. At the center this hive of money and power sits the famous Wayne Tower, a wondrous pillar of steel and stone ending in a burst of plating and stainless steel that gave the glow of a second sun in the rain-filled sky.

With the war over, new construction rapidly climbs the sky in a desperate bid to contend with Wayne Tower for both granduer and greatness. Yet, despite the builders vying for the title of city’s tallest building, the tower’s presence commands dignity. If the new buildings are monuments are to remind the people who survived that the world will continue onward, than the old buildings are there to say that the world will always survive the future. Even if the world is smaller now, it is, after all, turning by the works of great men.

Bruce Wayne is one such man, a titan, great and generous. The Wayne name has always been a signal of greatness to the city, and Bruce Wayne has been the face of progress for as long as Jason's been alive. Every few days the newspapers spill fresh ink on the topic covering the front page with photos of Wayne showering the world with that famous, million dollar smile while accompanied by beauty queens or shaking hands with congressmen, senators, community leaders. What little Jason has come to know about the man doesn’t make him disinclined to agree.

Staring up at Wayne Tower, Jason thinks about choices. No, he thinks about Choices, capital C, because they’re big, bold things. Choices are like closed doors out of a locked room, two diverging woods in a foreign land with no map or sky to guide and a bullet at every angle. A fellow knows when he’s standing in front of one. He recognizes the feeling that sent him into the armed services without a word of warning to the only person he’d ever really cared about. It’s the same breathless anticipation as crawling through the underbrush while Fritz jumps at every shadow with only a knife in his hand. Jason feels it now, the weight of Choice.

Wayne is a favored son and a hero whose shadow spreads further than this tower can cast. And he asked for Jason’s services. He can turn around now, set his steady feet back down the way he came and send his regrets. It wouldn't be the first time he'd turned a Wayne down afterall and experience makes everything easier.

Ultimately, Jason chooses to charge inside the marbled halls of Wayne Tower. If he’s been invited to answer questions, then Jason can provide answers and leave with his head high. He’ll be sure to have Stephanie send a bill in the morning and call it a consultation fee. She’ll get a thrill out of it. And if it’s a case, well, he can use a work and the graces that come with the Wayne name right about now.

Digging his fist deeper into the jacket pocket, Jason waits for the light to turn before crossing the busy intersection.

In short order, Jason discovers a hitch in his plan to make the time spent at Wayne Tower brief and profitable. Getting up to the man upstairs is a process.

First, he's escorted to a floor secretary. She’s a mild thing, watery blue eyes, dark hair, pale skin painted up like someone from a moving picture. After explaining his business, she calls someone somewhere in the building to grant permission for Jason to pass through the great golden doors at the end of the hall. Her hushed voice barely echoes in the cavernous entryway. Eventually, after many holds, Jason is granted permission to enter.

What goes on behind the golden doors remains a secret. Instead, he’s escorted into a side hall that winds up an incline. At the end is a fancy elevator with wrought iron doors fashioned into vines with a rounded dome like a fancy bird cage. The floor of the elevator is inlaid with plush carpet surrounded by marble tiles. Jason remains in the company of the white-gloved doorman and the elevator attendant whose jacket buttons glittered like polished stones for several long minutes.

The elevator slows as it approaches the nintey-nineth floor, where the doors release Jason into an opulent hallway. Wide arching corridors, curved windows letting in a flood of light that bounces along the seamless marble floors. Black painted double doors stand at the end of the hall with gold embellishments pounded in at the hinges, along the corners, and a swooping line in the center reminding Jason of playing cards. To the right of the doors sits wide, low desk taking up a large corner.

This secretary is a dark-haired lady with ice chip eyes behind delicate glass frames.

“Good afternoon, miss,” he says, breaking out a charming smile. “My name is Todd, and I have an appointment with Mr. Wayne.”

She manages to look down her nose at Jason’s wrinkled overcoat and wet shoes despite remaining seated. Neat trick. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask if she gives lessons, but she snaps her judging silence with a mellow voice. “If you will adjourn to the rightmost door, Mr. Wayne will be with you shortly.”

Jason looks to his right and the thin lattice pattern braiding up the stone veneer. He raises an eyebrow. “You seeing something I don’t?”

The secretary’s fingers dart beneath the desk. There’s a barely discernible buzz, and then a section of the wall clicks.

“Thank you, miss, ah?” He turns back ready to ask for a name but she’s already turned her cold glance back to some offensive item on her desk. He can take the hint.

The waiting room is covered in a polished, wood veneer and soft lights bolded into the wall.

“Your coat sir?”

Jason has a soldier’s steadiness, so he doesn’t leap out of his skin, but the voice startles him. To the right of the door sands a dignified, gray-haired man wearing the kind of pinstripe pants and starched collar that signals lifetime servitude. Jason has seen a lot of them over the past year or so upon entering the fancy row houses and mansions clustered in Gotham’s storied garden district. It's no surprise that Wayne employs butlers in his private offices as well as his home. Jason removes the overcoat and places his hat on top of the damp pile. The butler’s eyes whisk him up and down, disapproval hidden behind a mask of bland patience. Well, Jeeves can keep those eyes to himself. If Jason had known he was going to meet Gotham royalty today, he would’ve busted out his new spats and a silk pocket square.

Jason walks deeper into the room and notices its curved corners and crimson rugs beneath the leather chairs. Two glasses flank a bottle of dark whisky sitting on the center table looking smooth as honey in the crystal decanter.

“I can just help myself, can I?” He asks, turning on his heel, but the butler has disappeared as soundless as his arrival. Jason tugs at his cuffs before sitting down deciding against the drink. One splash won’t hurt him, but he’s got a feeling he’ll need every last one of his wits in this place.

Within a few short minutes, Jason sits on the warmest leather he’s ever felt on his bottom. One sip of the fine cognac melts the steel bars wrapped around his chest, but he can't relax. He alternates between checking his watch and eyeing the clock sitting above the small fireplace. Finally, the clock on the wall chimes twice.

“Mr. Wayne will see you now.” A tinny voice calls from some point behind him. Following the announcement is a buzz and distinct sound of a latch clicking. Jason follows the sound to another hidden door that swings open leading him into another opulent space.

The office is long and banked in shadows. Glass lines the far wall providing a view of the gray clouded sky and the wide stone balcony. The city unfolds just beyond the gargoyle crusted roof, ghostly lights hanging in the mist. But Jason’s attention isn’t on the view. It’s focused on the imposing figure rising proudly from behind a great desk.

Bruce Wayne is a striking man, tall to the point of imposing, steel blue eyes and a jaw that can cleave stone. He's tall as Jason and built in the same broad lines of a strong man. He's heard always said Wayne's father was as big as the bears found on the Klondike. Wayne's shrewd gaze sweeps over him, mouth set in a hard line, expression impenetrable. He doesn’t need to say anything, it’s like he can tell all the things Jason will never want to share. Like how there’s an ink stain on the elbow of his shirt and the heel of his sock needs darning, but it’s either that or paying Stephanie for the last few days, and he has priorities. Or maybe he’s remembering the one and only time he set foot in the Gotham Home for Boys and the fury in a young Jason’s eyes.

Finally, Wayne gestures at the single chair in front of his desk. “Please. Sit.”

Jason unbuttons his jacket and carefully folds his own broad body into the seat. Wayne follows into his own high-backed chair.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here, Mr. Todd.”

Straight to business then. “It's been a busy morning, but I must confess the thought has crossed my mind, Mr. Wayne.”

Wayne cross his fingers above the desk. “I won’t leave you waiting in suspense. This is a personal matter, one I need handled with the utmost discretion and haste. Of course, you will know that I have a son, Dick Grayson.” The narrow gaze becomes thin, sharp, a blade ready to slide over Jason’s skin. “He is missing. You will find him.”


End file.
